Come Into My Cocoon With Me
by Big Diesel
Summary: Mabel has been a victim of an incident that retreated her into a childlike state. No longer can handle her unpredictably volatile nature, her parents find excuses to escape the burden, leaving Dipper alone with his sister. Dipper has difficulty finding solace because of her past history with him. Will he able to overcome the burden of Mabel's mistakes to move forward for her sake?
1. Cocoon

**Hey, guys. This is going to be a short story about Dipper (known as simply Big Brother) and Mabel (known as Younger Sister) as they go through their trials and tribulations of loneliness, despair, recovery, and hope. This story is going to be bittersweet, but at the same leaving you in a sense of awe and wonder.**

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It hurts to write this as it does telling it. Propelling the synapses from your brain, sending energy to come into your mind. Even as I am writing it, the images appear every time I hit a keystroke. So, I should say that it hurts every time I am typing this. I don't get along with the times. We don't share the common playground with others. I am like the chubby kid that rest easily on the sandbox while others are playing their fun game. I want to play. I want to join, but unable because of my heavy stature. I just get in the way.

Just get in the way.

It hurts to write this as it does telling it. Seeing a rope wrapped delicately around your neck, but do not have the slightest clue where is its origin. You continue trailing the rope and go and go and go. By that time, you have to carry a heavy bundle of nylon. And you still can't find the source of the rope. It never ends. It never goes away. You become heavy. Crying as you can't find the source. Your tongue becomes heavy, slurring like an alcoholic fiending for a drink. Well, at least the drink can null, I mean numb the pain. Especially when you are continuing to look for the source.

I speak for those who can't speak. Because there are many like me who are carrying the burden. It is not easy.

It is not easy when the burden is not yours.

I speak for my sister. I speak for her because she does want not to speak. I speak for her because of her ability to speak who blindly taken away by someone who urged her not to speak. I am sorry, who forced her not to speak.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. January, February, March. Don't let me get any further than that. I just lost count on how long she has confined herself to her room.

The room where she calls her sanctuary. A place of inner peace. A place where no one gets harmed. A place where she calls it her cocoon.

She once told me in a tiny whisper that she was going through a metamorphosis.

She wants to be a butterfly that extends her wings. A new being from her former self. To cast aside the shell and enter somewhere different. She is different. No one knows who she is. She can start over. She can throw away the pieces and carry on to something greater.

I am still waiting on that cocoon to form. Her blanket and her pillow are enough for now.

I sit alone in the living room as I ponder on my next move. It has been a couple of days since the summer started. We were supposed to go visit our uncle this summer. But, that is a no-can-do from my mother. She called him with stricken tears, explaining that we couldn't make this summer.

She scratched through the lie with her harsh nails. She did not want to be alone with her. My father did not want to be alone. I did not want to be alone with her. But, she knew that someone needed to watch her because they had to work.

At least, they had a legitimate excuse. Where is mine? It is unfortunate. I only have a learner's permit.

I take a break from my writing. I scratch my underarms and there is a hint of sour under my nails. I think it is time that I should go for a shower. As I pondered on going upstairs to change, I get a call from my mother. Her voice is strained, knowing that she is getting ready to produce another lie. I take a sigh as I go to see her request.

I stretch both of my arms out like a bird before I made the twenty paces into the kitchen. That's right, twenty paces. I have counted. The many times I looked at my shoes or my bare feet, or at the carpet, I knew those were twenty paces of dinner, talks, advice, drinks, and lies. The twenty pace path to where is what I call it now.

She rests her hands on the phone. Who is she talking to now? I hope it is not another therapist. Even they are starting to get tiring. Does my mother ever get tired of paying over $250 an hour worth of faulty advice that I can pick up a psychology book to find out my psychosis? Does she get tired of hearing what advice to give my sister that it utterly leads to nowhere? The humming, the scribing of notes that I know are just sketches and a bill that leads to a prescription that leads to more pay for the doctor?

When is it going to be enough that even they can penetrate the fortress that my sister created? She gave them blank stares like I did. She gave them blank stares like I did.

She gives them blank stares like I did. I am still looking for the source of that rope.

I think I know where the link of the source. I am just in denial of knowing who and where it is coming from. Because every time I step closer, I hear the chain of the source. However, I am beginning to suspect that the origin is going to lead me to a greater burden. A prison, something so concave, so closed in that I would end up collapsing on my own.

And my mother does not need two sick children. Oh yeah, my mother. Amazing how you brain takes you away from the present situation and resides you somewhere else. I am standing in front of her in the kitchen. She called me. I think she wants to tell me something.

Through her cracked lips, she is preparing to tell me another lie. I know because she rubs her hands when she begins to talk. She only does this when she lies. I read a few books on the psychology of mankind myself. Not because it is an interesting topic. Even I began questioning on my own being.

But, that is a story for another time.

"I want you to keep an eye on your sister," she tells me without looking at me in the eye. "Your father is taking a double shift at work. He won't be home until after midnight."

I gave her the same stare I always do when she tells me these things. I nod and give her a small affirmation through my nose.

"I am going to do some errands," she tells me. "I am also making a trip to the valley to gather some things. I won't be back until nightfall."

"Yes, mother," I tell her while leaning against the island in the kitchen. I shrug and give her a look of "is there anything else you need to tell me before darting away to a wonderful that I am not allowed to go?"

She kisses me on the cheek. It hurt when her chapped lips scrap my cheek. It sort of gives a haunting feeling. But, in retrospect, it gives me a feeling of escape. Like "I am going somewhere you can't go. So long!" I think too much, but being by yourself to watch your sister, time is really all you have.

I have no real friends to speak of. The ones I did have, they ran off or got involved with some things with my sister that they are doing some time or probation.

My mother interrupts my thoughts. "Make sure that you stay with your sister."

"Yes, mother," I tell her. I have told her that over many times and she still doesn't get it. I am not going anywhere. I just hope you enjoy living in that bubble you call a life. More like a lie. I wish you can hear me, mother. I wish I can tell you that you and father, too, can not escape the realism of the burden that is called my sister. We all have to face it someday. There is something wrong with her. And unless we talk to her about that.

And unless we talk to her about that. And unless we talk to her about that.

That is it. She hasn't really spoken to us. Once again, we only see her in passing. In-and-out, not even a "hello" and a "goodbye."

I want to tell my mother this. So, so, so many times. Before I can draw a breath or at least form the first vowel or consonant in the sentence, she closes the front door.

I am now alone in a house with my sister.

I hope my mother is satisfied as I know she is going to spend the night at the motel off of the interstate where my father has taken residence for the last couple of weeks.

A woman who doesn't desert her husband. But, she abandons her kids. Her foundations are out of whack. Then, I am no better. Even I want to leave and escape.

But, I promised my mother that I wasn't going to leave her alone.

I leave the kitchen as I make my way to the bathroom. Very convenient that the bathroom is after I pass my sister's room. I get a strong feeling each time I pass. Like a feeling of something that doesn't belong. A strong omnipotence of a burden. That room isn't meant to be open kind of feeling.

I sigh as I make my way to the shower.

I hear a crash. It is coming from my sister's room. I swallow nothing as I know that she has her hands on something that doesn't need to belong. As much I want a shower, but at the same time I don't want my sister to harm herself again, I make my way to her door.

I take a breath. I release a loud sigh as I open the door to the formidable castle. The fortress. The place where her cocoon resides and which she has dubbed her metamorphosis.

It has a strong pungent odor in here. Reminds me of old library books. Or a room that is casted away for many, many years. It reminds me of a prison where the warden locks his criminal and throws away the key. No visitors, no guest. Not even a slightest clue of the person's existence. They starve and roll into a ball. Shrivel like a raisin and that is it.

Amazing how people can value a life and make death look so simple. Like it was a well-deserved death.

I wonder is that how my mother thinks of my sister. About the things she did was deserved? Are you sure, mother? If that were the case, you will be wallowing in it. Maybe even play the pity card. But not you. You just ran away like my father.

He was the first to go. He couldn't imagine having a daughter who was...who was….

He couldn't imagine a daughter who brought so much suffering that one day it was going to return. We were paying a price of her detriments. She gets payback. Then why are we still paying her bills?

"Big brother." She stirs. I turn to the floor where she is lying. Because it is dark, I am unable to see. But, I know where she is. Because I can still hear me hitting on the instrument that was giving her much turmoil.

"Hey, sis," I say to her. "You are making a racket again. What in the hell are you doing?" I take cautionary steps. I am unsure on what weapon she may have. I still feel the cut on my back where she last attacked me.

It was an accident. I know it was. She was still seeing the people who gave her those scars. And those scars I have received also.

She has a screwdriver. Next to her I see her alarm clock. It is ruined. Smashed and cracked in many areas. Nothing left of its function of the hands of its former self. What was she thinking, I ask myself. Did that clock remind you of a cocoon? Were you jealous of it? It too can make time but you have yet created your own?

"Give it to me," I tell her. "You are going to hurt yourself again. I can't afford that."

As I retrieve the screwdriver from me, she gives me a look. It is very childlike. Her eyes, her eyes staring at you in a daze. Like she too didn't know what she was doing. Her hair, tangled and in a mess. This is not the sister I used to know.

There was a time where she was not easy to deal with.

She takes her hands and feels my face. She traces me as if she is blind and searching for braille letters. She continues feeling my face before she rest her chin on my neck. She nuzzles before she bites into my neck.

I flinch from it. But I am used to the pain. I am used to it because it is my routine. It is our routine as I come into her fortress.

She takes a look at me before we both looked at the crushed alarm clock.

"Why were you fighting the clock, sis?" I ask her. "I shouldn't be surprised. Looking at the presentation, you have done worse."

And she has. Her room used to be a showcase of trophies, electronics, and among other things. What is left is just a bed, a window, and…. I want to say hope, but I think it, too, has jump ship as well.

"That clock," she tells me. "That clock was getting on your younger sister's nerves, big brother."

She takes the clock in her hand, examining the damage. "It makes weird noises. It makes sounds like _tick, tick, tick, tick, tick_ , big brother." She tosses the clock to the wall. "It was annoying me, big brother. That clock."

I scratch my forehead and covered my nose. I still can't get used to the pungent scent. "Well, sis, it is a clock. It suppose to make noise like that."

She widened her eyes and grabs my shirt. "It doesn't supposed to be like it." She screams at me. "Clocks don't make those odd sounds. " _Tick, tick, tick"_ it tells me on one ear. " _Tick, tick, tick_ ," it tells me on the other ear. I didn't like it very much. Your younger sister hates those kinds of things, big brother. She pants loudly, but I urge her to calm down. I remind her to quiet down. There isn't no one else here. It is just to two of us. She takes me advice.

"Stupid clock, big brother," she tells me. "You know, it may have act nice when you were around. But at night, that clock was mean. It kept ticking and ticking and ticking. I had to dispose of it. It was being a mean old clock."

I go and pick up the clock. "I tell you what, sis. I go and throw away the clock for you."

Her eyes light up like a Christmas tree. "You mean it, big brother? You will throw it away?"

I let out a plastic smile. "If it means not to destroy anything again."

She lets out a small laugh. "Yay! Big brother is going to get rid of the mean old clock. Makes the pain fade away." It is sing-song. Reminds us of when we were kids, in happier times.

I pick up the clock and I head for the door. She tugs me by my shirttail.

"I can really use a shower," she tells me.

I don't turn around. She is right. She does smell very ripe.

"Let me take mine and you can go afterwards," I tell her.

"You won't leave me," she asks me.

I extend my hand out as I turn around. "I promise."

I made a pinky swear with my sister as I go outside and throw away the clock.

I throw the clock in the trash can in my bedroom. I take off my shorts as I reach for a towel. I take my shirt off and put them both in the laundry hamper. I take a look in the mirror. I see my sunken eyes. I see some bite marks from my sister's greetings.

I realize that I left my laptop on the couch. Not wanting anybody have access to my innermost thoughts, I go and retrieve it. I make my way to the door where I meet my sister. She stares at me with that childlike gaze. She lingers at the door holding a towel in her hand.

"Let me shower with you, big brother," she tells me. "I don't want to be alone."


	2. A Piece (Peace) of Mind

I take a break from writing today. I used the excuse of my hands were hurting again. No, no, that is not right. I think I told my teacher that my teacher that my wrist felt sprained. I told her that I had another argument with my sister and it resulted in her attacking me. "Defensive wounds" I explained to her in my email. She understood my pain, but still told me that I had a couple of weeks to turn in my thesis, or else she is going to fail me on my assignment.

It is not easy explaining to yourself on you are writing a paper on your sister. It is not easy that you are using her past addictions as materials for your class. It is also not easy that once you finish this paper that you have to present your findings to the class about your sister. The eyes of my classmates are embedded into my brain. The worries of anticipation fills my mind with woes. A strong word, I may add, but I feel abandoned.

I am no different than my sister. The only difference is that I vocalized my pain. It is too bad that I am only speaking it to myself.

"Big brother, are you still here?" My sister is taking a shower in the bathroom. I did not want to shower with her this time. I never really wanted to shower with her in the first place.

She does not need to be alone. The last time I have left her alone, I ran into a floor of sharded glass and a bloody sister. It was a miracle that she did not hit any major artery. She told me and my parents that she wasn't planning to kill herself. She claimed that she did not want to see the demons laughing at her.

 _Make them go away, big brother. Make them go away._ Those words I can never forget. It covers me like a blanket. Better yet, like a tattoo. Her eyes were filled with agony when the doctors came and sent her to the psychiatric ward. She spent a couple of days there. The doctors told my parents that during her stay, she always cried out to me.

I was there. I just did not have the strength to push through those metal doors.

"Big brother, are you still there?" She calls me again, with much worry in her voice. I evacuate my thoughts and return to the matter at hand. Even though sometimes my thoughts were becoming more of an oasis to reside and rest.

"Yes, sis. I am still here. I am sitting right at the door." I tell her with sure certainty. I confirm it to her through knocking on it. I gave her slight taps. I hear her returning to the shower where she continues to bathe.

"You are not going anywhere, right," she questions me.

"I am not," I answer.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"You promise?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"So, you are not leaving me?"

"For the umpteenth time, no."

"Good." She returns back to bathing and I don't hear anything else. I still time her on her baths. Twenty minutes. Twenty-five, give or take. It really depends on how long it has since her last bath or it is her time of the month. I am just grateful that she is having them again. At one point, that too came to a screeching halt.

The sound of the bath water turns off. I hear slide the shower curtains. She knocks on the door. I get up and slowly open the door slightly. I give her a change of clothes.

"Thanks," she answers.

"No problem," I explain to her. I take a couple of steps from the door. I still look away. "I am going to make you some lunch. I will be in the kitchen. I am not going anywhere."

"No," she shouts to me. "Don't leave me. You promise you won't leave me alone." She pushes the door and runs into my direction. Her clothes and her towel leave a path as her nakedness is in front of me. She clings tightly around me. Her arms around my waist. Her head pressed against my chest. She sniffles onto my shirt. She is trembling. Her shakes are making me shake.

"Don't go nowhere, big brother," she says. "Don't leave me."

I put my hand on her hair, rubbing it affectionately. She smells of strawberries. That shampoo I got for her is really doing the trick because her hair is really soft.

"I will stay," I tell her. "I am not going nowhere."

"Promise," she says with her pleading eyes.

I let out a slight, but plastic smile. "I am your big brother. I will never abandon you."

I lament on how precious, how valuable this moment is. I just wish that it did not have to happen under these circumstances. I tell you all this because she has never called me "big brother" under this duress. In the past, I was known by other names.

 _Asshole, dickwad, dipshit, dipdick, stupid ass boy, fucking bastard, gay ass, fuck boy_.

She had a category on how she displayed her feelings for me through those nicknames. They were uncanny and were sure as hell, unapologetic.

I can't pinpoint when my younger sister steered away from us. But, I can tell you how she made life difficult for my parents and me.

It was around our freshman year of high school where I noticed such a change in her. It started slowly. How she dressed, how she began wearing makeup, her taste in music, her personality, everything.

She addressed us in a different way. She came home at all parts of the evening. There have been times she was present for breakfast. We didn't go to school together anymore. Even if we did, she did not want to be seen around me. I was too much of a "basic bitch" for her.

My parents did not, or at least, try to give it any thought. They tell me that she is going through a phase. All teenagers go through a phase, they told me. They were going to allow her to go through its course and before we realize it, she will return to us.

That was the excuse they gave my younger sister after missing curfew, skipping school, her first shoplifting charge, her first suspension, getting caught smoking marijuana, getting caught having sex with a boy in their bed….

 _Shall I carry on?_

The changes became surreal when she started dating this boy that was well beyond her years. At the time, she was fourteen and he was twenty-one. From the intel I gather, he was a college dropout, a dreamer, a guitar enthusiast, an alcoholic, a heroin addict, a prolific liar.

 _Shall I carry on?_

We started seeing less of her. She eventually stopped going to school. One day, I came home to an empty bedroom. She moved out. Not only that, certain items were missing from mine as well. She stole my mother's jewelry, including her grandfather's watch. The only thing she had of him because he died during World War II. I don't want to really get into that subject but my younger sister didn't just steal stuff, she stole a piece of us.

In the end, my parents gave me the same excuse for my sister. She is going through a phase. She will eventually return.

She sits at the kitchen table. She pats on the table making beats. She shows anticipation, excitement on the dish she will be having for lunch.

"What's for lunch, big brother," she says melodically with her hands. "What's for lunch, big brother? Whatcha gonna make? Is it a sandwich or is it a cake? I wonder whatcha making for lunch, big brother? It doesn't matter because it is made from love like my big brother."

It is something simple. My mother didn't leave any money this time. We are running low on food. My paycheck isn't available until next week. I have scrap what is in the kitchen. I think I might call Wendy if I could borrow some funds. My next excuse this time will be….

"You are making omelets again, aren't ya?"

I turn when she is right next to me. Amazing how distracted I am at this point. She sways forward and backward while looking at me cooking.

"I like your omelets, big brother," she says to me. "They are the best omelets in the whole world."

"It is nothing special," I tell her. "It is simply made of eggs and rice. A simple recipe. Anybody can do it."

She shakes her head. "Uh, uh. I can't do it. I can't do anything right."

I place my hands on my hips. "What makes you think you can't?"

"Your younger sister hears mommy and daddy talking at night when they think no one is listening," she says with a childlike voice. "Mommy and daddy think your younger sister can never be the same. They think your younger sister is forever "scarred."" She makes a slight scoff. "I don't know what "scarred" means? Is it the same like this scar?"

She pulls up her skirt. I turn red because I see her panties.

"Put that down, sis," I tell her.

"Is it like this scar on my stomach, big brother," she questions me.

I try not to look. I don't want to look. She tugs on my shirt.

"Is it?"

I continue cooking.

"Is it?"

I need to turn over the egg so I don't overcook it.

"Tell me, big brother."

I look up before sighing. I do my best to never display frustration to her.

"I can't really answer that, sis," I say to her. She continues showing her panties and her stomach. I see her long slash mark on her stomach. She did not make those wounds. Those wounds were a parting gift from her boyfriend. There was an incident.

She pulls down her skirt. "Okay, big brother." She smiles and extends her arms around me. She hugs me and doesn't let go. She clings tightly while I try to finish making lunch.

Silence fills the room as we eat. She takes slow bites. The old her would have finished the meal quickly. Not this sis. She takes her time. She is very delicate. Even with the smallest grain of rice, she was not going to miss a morsel.

"Crazy big brother," she smiles. She tells me that there is a grain of rice on my cheek.

"You are making a pig of yourself," she tells me before reaching for it and putting it in her mouth. "All clean now, big brother."

At least she is smiling. There is something that is filling the room better than the sadness that consumes within us. Well, me anyway.

 _I wonder what Mom and Dad are doing in their tiny castle. Are they thinking of us? Are they considering what we can do to become a family again? Or they still want to escape? Escape? Escape? Escape? Escape?_

"Big brother, your nose is bleeding," she tells me with worry.

I get that a lot. Especially when I am under stress.

She grabs a napkin and wipes my nose. "And you are supposed to be the one taking care of me."

"Thanks," I tell her.

I take both of our plates and put them in the sink. I tell her that she should go into the living room. She turns on the television where her favorite cartoon show would normally come.

Once I get done with the dishes, I head to the living room. I turn to the television where she stares idly at the screen. Her program isn't on, but the news.

 _The trial date has been set for suspected drug dealer accused of kidnapping, aggravated assault, attempted second-degree murder, and rape on a high school girl that will remain anonymous. He was arrested over eighteen months ago after DNA linked him to the high school student. The sixteen-year-old was reportedly found in an alleyway, left for dead. The victim was found severely beaten, drugged, and raped. She was taken to a local area hospital where she recovered. She is expected to testify before a jury in this upcoming trial…._

I grab the remote and turn off the television. I see her reflection as she takes a bite of her sleeve. She turns around and looks at me.

"That was a bad man on television, big brother," she says. "Bad boys like him should be severely punished. She gets up and runs to hug me again.

"You are not like that," she tells me. "You are a good guy. You are the best brother in the whole world."

It tears me inside because the small girl who used to tell me to "fuck off" is the same one who is dependent on me. The same girl who took our peace of mind is the same girl who wants peace. Inside of her head is a raging battle. She is not the same girl. For that very person who is facing trial took her peace of mind.

"You are right, sis. I will never do anything like that. You can always lean on me for anything."


	3. Message in the Bottle

I return back to my room, alone, to resume my writing. I gave my sister a glass of fruit punch and NyQuil for her nap, which is now part of her afternoon routine. I left the television on in her room for background noise. I never want her to think she is alone. She is not alone. I don't want her to be alone. Even if I want to be alone, but I have promised my mother on looking out for her. I promise my sister I will look out for her. Promises after promises after promises. Where is it my turn for a kept promise? When am I able to...when am I able...when am I able to have a voice in this house. No, no, I can speak. I mean when am I able to have a _say_ in this house?

I speak. I _do_ speak. But when is it my turn to have a say in this house?

That is all I want. That is all I want, mom and dad. That is all I want, dearest sister.

I,too, have suffered from this, but when is it my turn to have a voice or a say or to speak. If nobody can catch this, then I doubt anybody will. At times, I feel like blending into the decor. I am only recognized when there something of a significance. Like chipped paint or a hole in a wall. Something torn, something that should have been handled with care, but instead became misbegotten, if that ever a strong use of a word to be used in this situation.

Even in her peril, she manages to get her way. And I am still paying for it.

Hey, mom and dad, how is that castle of yours? Is it beautiful? Is it lovely? Tell me on how you are doing within. Do you think about us? Do you think about repairing what is left of us. Do you think of the loose thread that is unwinding every time it gets pulled. Do you? Do you?

Do you think about that torn thread. What can you do to fix it? Oh yeah, that is right, you can't hear me. You reside in a castle where I am not allowed to have a say. Or a voice. Or to speak. Who am I speaking to? Just silence, a finite wall that bounces it sounds back to me. So, I am talking to myself.

Let me know my dearest parents if you can find that silver lining beneath that torn thread, then maybe, just maybe, you can at least send me that message.

Open the bottle that lies beneath the sand and return that message back to the real world. Because mom and dad, that castle is built on sand. It can only be so long before the tears bring that castle down.

I crack my knuckles as I make the attempt, once again, on writing my thesis. I am taking a class online. Something to kill time. College is looming near. So, it is only a service to have some kind of credibility, where it counts. So, I do have something that sees me more than a choice to fill up space.

I take a sip of water to begin my writing. I feel for the bottle as I quench my thirst. For what I gain, it loses. And once that bottle is empty, so would its valued. Just a plastic bottle, void of a purpose. Too bad I don't just recycle the bottle. For I am a bit jealous. It gets a second chance? Good luck at the dump as I cast it away to the trash can. If you can find my solution, Mr. Water Bottle, let me know.

I hear a knock at the door. Was the dose not strong enough? It doesn't take much of a genius to know that behind that door is my younger sister. I wait a few seconds. I say that because I am stalling. Like a person who has no plans prior to important presentation, I must be quick on my toes. I have to plan on what I have to say. Playing the role of sympathetic brother takes hard work. Too much muscles, too much pressure on the brain. So much of my heart is pulled by her thread, linking me to her chain. So, I know where that rope connects. I just close my eyes to pretend it is not there. Like the sounds of her bell as she pulls me to come forward. Just as she is as she knocks over and over again at my door.

I close my laptop. I call today's assignment a loss. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. Maybe Mom might stay and help me this time. Maybe Dad can muster the courage to visit once in a while. Maybe a phone call, a Dear John letter….

"Big brother," she wails to me behind the door like a small kitten. Her nails slid the door, garnering, no, demanding for my attention. "Please let me in, big brother. I don't want to be alone." She knows that she is to not open the door without my permission. So, at least I have one thing to control. Amazing something so miniscule as that can make a man feel so powerful.

I move my laptop to get out of my bed. I make my pace to the door. I stared at the faded golden knob before opening my door. And behold, there she is. Her eyes watering from my tardiness. She holds her blanket to her mouth like a child would do when they have bad dreams or they did something bad. Her flushed face stares at me. It tells me "why did it take you so long?" "You promised me, big brother."

I think too much. I extend my hands and I give her the warmth she deserves. Even if she has done little to deserve it.

She buries herself in my chest. She shakes. She is shaking. Her body rattles my body. Tears filled her eyes and onto my shirt. The sound of the wailing kitten enters the stage for all of the world to see.

That world, the finite space of our house. Population: me and her.

I take her hand. She holds it tight. I take her to my bed. I take my towel from my drawer as I begin wiping her face. I dad the snot from her nose. I clean around her eyes. She holds my arm, feeling her warmth as I clean her face. I put the towel back on my nightstand. I take a tissue from its box and placed it on her nose.

"Blow," I instruct her to do. She follows it. The wave of her sinuses collides with the tissue. I press her nose as I tell her to do it again. She still holds my arm.

When she is finished, I do a final take. I examine her nose and throw the tissue away.

"Better," I tell her with my plastic smile.

"Thank you," she returns with her faint smile.

I lean back against the bed. I know what I am going to say. By now, this is the normal I am forcefully adapted myself into. "You had the dream again, didn't you?"

She shakes her head, giving me the confirmation. "Was it about the mean old octopus?"

She tucks her blanket into her mouth, gripping it tightly as I spill those words from my mouth. She shakes her head. She leans forward and wraps herself around my shoulders.

"It came after me again," she tells me. "Him and his mean goons. I tell them to stop. Don't hurt me. Leave me alone." Her body alerts me that she is getting close. "They laugh. All of them laugh. They wouldn't stop. They touched in a bad place, big brother. That mean octopus and his goons. I am sorry, big brother." She tucks her chin at my shoulder. "I am sorry that I wasn't strong to fight them off."

I shake my head. Now it is my turn to talk.

I take her by her sides and put her against the wall. I sit against my headboard. Time to give her advice. No, not the kind of everything is going to be alright or don't worry about those nightmares. It will just a lie. And that is something I am not going to do _ever_ again.

"Sis," I say to her. "You did the right thing by coming here. You followed my instructions well."

"I did," she questions me.

"Yes," I tell her, giving her my confirmation of approval. "Remember what I always tell you."

"'Come and see you,'" she says.

"That is correct," I say. "So, you are strong for making that sound decision. I am proud of you."

I give her a high-five. She lets out a small coo. I reach for a book next to my nightstand for her to read.

"Do you feel like reading _Raising Dragons_ or _The Cat in the Hat_?"

" _The Cat in the Hat_!" She exclaims.

I give her the book. She opens to any random page. She lets out sounds of excitement whenever I give her those books. It forgets the pain. For me and for her.

Meanwhile, I go into my drawer and get a book for my own reading pleasure. It is nothing special about it, but it takes my mind away. I turn the page to one of Haruki Murakami's classic, _1Q84_. It takes me away. I know I say that, but it is true. Entering into a dystopian fantasy is my drug of choice. Seeing my younger sister reading is now her drug of choice. It is enriching, gives her knowledge. Not inability of producing memory, blurred vision, high sense of euphoria, losing consciousness….

 _Shall I carry on?_

She interrupts my thoughts. "I don't want to read this anymore. I don't like that book."

I sighed, still trying to hide my frustration. "Those are the only books I have. I have some manga if you like to read."

She nods her head in disagreement. She points to my book. "I want to read this story."

"It is a little too advanced for you, sis. I will try and see…"

She grabs my leg, clinging to it tight. She raises her voice. "I want this book. I want this book. I want this book. I WANT THIS BOOK!"

I get tense and sigh loudly. "Alright, Jesus." I give her the book. "Take it, God!" I decide to get a manga instead. I really wanted to read that book. She grips my leg, blocking my attempt to get up from this bed.

"No," she yelps like an indecisive child. "I want you to read this book to me."

"I don't want to."

"Yes, you will, big brother."

"Well, I don't want to."

"Yes, you will, big brother."

"You are being a brat."

"You are being a meanie."

"You are being a spoiled little girl."

"You are being an old gramps."

"Lazy reader."

"Old."

"Rotten."

"Gramps."

We exchange quips for a few moments. Despite it become old and silly, but it feels good to see her response. She is getting her voice back. She extends her arms to block me. I can...I can...I can still see the track marks on her body. It is fading away. It is fading away.

Another gift that came from that mean old octopus and his goons.

About two weeks after her running away, we get a knock at the door. Because I was closest to the door, I went and answered it. In front of me was a box. Before I can discovered who sent it, the vehicle sped away into the rainy night. I stared at the mysterious package. The cover had an image of a refrigerator.

A size big enough to keep something you want to discard.

I opened the box. Upon sight, I immediately screamed for my parents. I saw her. The appearance of bad girl was gone. If I can make an observation.

And just my opinion. She looked like an octopus. Purple, exposed out of its environment, and vulnerable to predators.

We immediately called for an ambulance. She was rushed to the hospital. She stayed overnight for observation. Also, we were to be awaited by the police and social services.

After being observed by doctors, they told us that her octopus-like appearance was based on her abusing illegal drugs. There was oxycodone, promethazine, ecstasy, and even traces of methamphetamine in her system. The doctors told us that they have given her a hot dose after being taking advantage by those goons.

In addition, her body was battered. Not to sound macabre, but her body looked like a Paint by Numbers. Her boyfriend's intention was leave her for dead. The doctor told us that her cuts should have killed her because those wounds were over two days old. The doctor concluded that the men who did that to her were so caught up into their raping her that they were unaware.

Dropping her off at our house was just a final insult to her injury.

By the grace of God, shortly after her attack, the men involved in her rape and attempted murder were arrested. Unfortunately, another victim was the reason. That victim didn't make it. However, the silver lining was that the victim had DNA under her fingernails. One of the men was identified. And from what I was told, he folded at interrogation and sold out all of his goons, included my sister's beloved boyfriend.

The men involved in the attacks are facing 25 to 45 years in prison. All of them pleaded guilty to their charges. However, her boyfriend pleaded not guilty. Can't say I blame him. I would do the same if I am facing the death penalty.

While these men are facing these sentences, so are we. No, I am sorry, so am _I_. It takes actual parents to be there facing this with me. So, _I am_ facing the sentence of having a sister who is reverted into her childlike state.

 _I am_ sentenced to know that every magazine, television, and newspaper is going to know who we are. _I am_ sentenced to the looks and stares of anybody who knows about this. _I am_ sentenced with the responsibility of watching over my sister until she comes out of this.

When will she? I am not sure. Hopefully, when she comes out her cocoon.

And I am still waiting on that day.

 _Big brother_

 _Big brother_

 _Hey, big brother!_

I jump. "Yes," I say to her. She tilts her head in a weird way. "Did you hear what I have said?"

"What is it again," I tell her. "Sometimes big brother gets lost in his own world."

She gets near me and hits my head with her fist. "Let me come into your world with you. That way, you are not alone." She kisses my forehead. "Now, better?"

"I am," I tell her. "I am."

"Good," she says with a wide smile. She turns around and she sits on my lap. She gets herself comfortable and she has _our_ book in her hand.

"I don't care what kind of book it is. I want both of us to read _one_ book." She grabs my hand and she wraps it tightly, intertwining our fingers. "And I want to read this book with my big brother."

"Well then," I respond. "I can't beat your logic. So, I guess you win!"

"Yay!" She shouts loudly. "I win! I win!" With her dough eyes, she turns the page to our first chapter. I read along with her.

 _Eyes closed, Aomame listened to the music, allowing only the lovely unison of the brasses to sink into her brain. Just then it occurred to her that the sound quality…._


	4. Lying in Sinking Sand

I take a bottle of water to swallow the medication I use on occasion. Often, it takes away the pain of the things that have happened, or going to happen. I am not being pessimistic. I am afraid to be too far gone to use such an unlikely for the events that have already unfolded. I am long-winded in sentences, I know. But, it helps me define the assembly line I call a brain. Ingesting the memories of my existence and produce them on paper to explain my thoughts. That is how I am built, how I am operated. To serve the will of a living God in which I can't even tell if he is listening. I am on a bended knee telling my pain, my struggles, but is he really listening? Blasphemous, I know, but if he what others claim to be, then should have seen the foreshadowing of the events unfolding right before me? Could have at least give us a warning, a hint, something in the water, the message, something.

Then yet again, I would look at the glass that is buried in the sand. I wouldn't look at any of those things. For it isn't easy being in the mindset, the frame of mind that keeps depleting me to the very end.

Yet again, maybe I am being pessimistic. I have yet create one positive thought in this message. You, readers, are probably thinking to yourselves of this wretched child being a detritus, pitiful fool of a saint. Better yet a sinner, a saint is too grandeur for the likes of me. Then yet again, I have heard from others that a saint is just a fallen sinner who had stood up from his inequalities. And that is just the thing. I am still lying in the sinking sand; suffocating me and swallowing me whole into the pit of where I belong. Where I will forever lie until the end where there will be no space or time.

Eternity is endless. Whether is endless bliss or endless of chaos. Endless is an indefinite term for a long, long time.

It is up to you on what end result it may choose. Better pick or it will choose for you. And I am quite unsure if you want to be on the losing end.

Many, many times I have caught myself on the losing end. Wondering if the ropes would wrap tightly around your neck, hoping that it can ensnare and end it. Or, there is hope in which the rope would loosen, take you away and return to your former existence. It just depends on how you look at it. There are two sides of a coin and half of a glass. Like in the sense of the bottle I have poured into this glass. Perspective after perspective after perspective.

I think too much. With indefinite time of living in your own finite world, you couldn't imagine the possibilities of things you can do. To find something productive, or to find trouble. Alas, it results in the aforementioned consequences. Instead of pondering in the ifs of the lesser God, I rather spend my time returning to the paper I have due in the next few days.

My teacher asks me on the end result of this thesis. A conclusion to find under the duress of my subject. Subject, a person of interest. Subject, a definition of the person in question. Subject, a theme. Subject, a point. Subject, subject, subject.

Well, professor, the subject is question is a definitive being. I say that because there is something that defines her in a sense of her budding metamorphosis. Like myself, she, too, is in a search of newer being. To recycle and to depart from her vehicle and to cleanse herself in a new form. To throw the depravity of herself and to become something that doesn't make her who she is.

My subject, professor, is a captivating young woman. A woman of strong intellect, a woman of purpose. Now, if you want to define purpose, then let me tell you this. They say that there are two kinds of people in this world: one is who assigned and one is who designed. I was assigned the position of watching this said subject. What I have to explain that assignments are something that must be completed, or face the consequences. Rather or not I want to do this assignment, it must be done in order to complete my own purpose. Confusing, it should be. It is confusing because I am doing the assignment because the people was incapable of doing for her own reasoning. Because she was unable to do the task, therefore, I am now responsible for doing it. Confused, you should. Because I am once again covering many, many things in order to fulfill my purpose, but at the same time get her to finish.

Because that subject and I share the same mindset, the same genes, the same everything. Despite I being male and she being female, we are one in the same. What I share, she shares. Her pain is my pain. In a way, I am carrying the burden because she is my burden. I am carrying the burden because it is my duty to ensure that she gets her assignment complete.

I know what you are thinking and it sounds confusing, doesn't it? It matters not because she is going to fulfill her end of the deal before this thesis is complete. That is her purpose to fill the portion of her design.

Alas, being designed. We all have a purpose, a destiny. The hell or heaven we go through perpetuates a result. Or the old saying goes, everything happens for a reason.

Maybe, just maybe, I am designed to cover and to protect this caterpillar? Maybe I am responsible for fulfilling her position of transformation. Maybe she was assigned of propelling her hell and affecting us to go to her purpose?

I am neither the author or God in this riveting web, but I think of those things. Maybe, just maybe, I am the task she needs to complete to finish her metamorphosis. Maybe it is my assignment to protect her, to shield her away from the pain and the agony. Her past is her past. I shed the tears, the pain. Where she bruised, I bruised. Where she bled, I bled. Where she cried for our parents, I cried for our parents.

Where are you, mama? Where are you, papa? Can you see your children are in pain? Can you see the cries, the tears, the words we tell you? Do you even think of us in that castle? That castle of sinking sand. The hell we have been through because we vie for your love. It is not easy being a parent, I know. But we need someone to talk to. We ask you for your guidance. Especially at this moment of time, mama and papa. Especially when our worlds seem so cloudy.

Like the roles of birds, or lions, or any mammals that nurture their young, guide us until we are mature. How do you expect a flower to bloom if it stays in the dark? Do you expect a rose to grow from concrete? Like soil that needs the water, the sun, and most importantly, seeds. We are you seeds mom and dad. Do you expect us to grow if you hide it in your hand?

We want your love and care and support. Mama, papa, I, too, am only a child. A child raising another child who is trying to find herself. She, too, doesn't want to be in this position. I, too, don't want to be in this position.

I bite my lip every time I call for your name, but to only return silence. I have dear friends on the outside of this finite space that urged me to return to them. They have promised me sanctuary. A haven where my sister and I can be free. Free, free, what is free?

Because I don't feel free. A price is being paid because of her. A price of being paid at our expense. In a way, she is more free than I am. She still manages to go scot-free and I am at my last dollar before I, too, go deep in the sinking sand.

Alas, I call tonight a failure for this paper. However, I have added anecdotal notes for some very fruitful. Why does my sister choose such a creature, I will never know. I can't go into her mind, but maybe, just maybe she wants to fly. That is my result of the subject in question, professor. As, I close my laptop on the matter, I question about whether I should make her into a subject of discussion.

I hear a knock on the door. I look into the clock on the wall. It is a little after two in the morning. It is not surprising of her late night walks. She doesn't get much sleep in the night. Nightly panic attacks are the norm. Without giving it any thought, I walk to the door and open it.

There she is, standing in the most innocent, childlike poses. She holds the teddy bear I got from her from the previous summer festival. She is wearing the nightgown that I have picked out for her. I am going to call my mother in the morning to acquire some funds. We are in need of laundry detergent and food is running low.

I am also interesting in getting a phone card.

I put my hand on my hip, with the other I yawn. Her cheeks are flushed. She remains in the same position. She has the expression of she did something wrong.

"Look, sis," I say to her. Once again, I am calm. My tone isn't alerting of scaring her or shaming her. I look at the wet patch around her nightgown. She chokes a little, trying her hardest not to cry. I can't finish the conversation. I extend my hands where she runs and hugs me. She hugs me tight; burying her face into my shirt. She tugs the back of my shirt with her shaking hands. I take deep breaths. I am calm, I am calm.

"It happens, sis," I tell her, rubbing her forehead. "Even your big brother has them from time to time." I lie, but she doesn't need to know that.

She looks to me. "You are not mad?"

I let out a plastic smile, shaking my head in disagreement. "Of course, not. I shouldn't punish you for something that can't be helped." I pat her head again. "It does mean we have to stop you from drinking liquids at a certain time."

She rubs her feet on the ground. "I am sorry, big brother."

"I know you are," I say to her. I took her hand. "Let's go to the bathroom and clean you up."

A few minutes later, I am in the bathroom with my sister. She sits on the toilet, tugging on the teddy bear's ear with her teeth. Before I go to the bathroom, I go into her bedroom to retrieve another pair of underwear. She doesn't have any more clean clothes. I go back to my room where I pick out a shirt for her to wear until I can get some money in the morning.

I run the bath water to get it to the right temperature. I shake the water off. I grab the curtain so she is able to get some privacy.

"I am going to turn around. Take off your clothes and step into the shower," I say to her with my back away from her.

My senses tell me not to put my hand on the doorknob. Instead, I close it with my foot. Hearing the sound of her sighs confirm that I made the right choice.

"I am in the shower, big brother," she says. She pitter patters the water playfully.

"Sis, I don't have time to play this morning," I tell her with a serious tone. "Quickly, wash up so we can go to bed."

She doesn't say a word, but the sound of her loofa around the shower head and her scrubbing was evidence of my severity. She can't sleep in her room tonight. The smell of urine and among other things surrounded the sheets.

I think I will let her sleep in my bed and I will sleep on the floor, I tell myself as I sit on the toilet.

"I am also finished," says my sister.

"Good," I respond as I am yawning. I am trying to stay awake, but I remain alert. I tell myself to not sleep before her. I promised my parents for her safety.

She dries quickly. I avert my eyes so she can put on her fresh clothes. Once, she gives me the word, I open my eyes.

My shirt is obviously too large for her as she wears it like a dress. She shakes her head to get the water out of her ears. I frown when I see soap residue on her hair.

"C'mere," I tell her as I take her towel and begin cleaning. "You have to start learning how to double check yourself."

"I know," she says as she sticks out her tongue.

I dry around her neck. As much as I don't want to, I reach for the back of her shirt to dry her back. She has a poor habit of drying herself off.

After a few moments of straighten her out, she looks good as new, or at least on the outside.

I fold the towel and return it to the rack. The last thing I tell her to do is to wash her face and brush her teeth.

I yawn again as she does her duties.

"Make sure you are hitting all of the spots. I am not going back after you again."

"Hmm-hmm."

She gargles, rinses, and spits. She washes her face and then turns to my sight. I inspect her to make sure everything is decent.

"Ok, you pass the inspection!"

She smiles, opening her mouth to show her teeth. "Yay! Big brother says I pass the test."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's put you to bed."

I go into the closet to retrieve an extra pillow and blanket. I get myself together as I am preparing to sleep on the floor tonight.

"I get to sleep in my big brother's room," she wails excitedly while jumping on my bed. I am not to protest, for I am too tired. I go to the light switch to turn off the light.

"You are sleeping on my bed, sis. And please, don't wet this one," I tell her.

"I won't, big brother!"

"Here is hoping."

"You are not sleeping with me?"

"No, I am not. I have the floor, you have the bed."

"No," she protest. "I want to sleep with big brother."

"No, sis. Sleep on the bed."

"I want to sleep with you!"

"No!"

It is dark in my room, but I feel a heavy presence on top of me. Through the blinds, I see the seriousness in my sister's eyes. She grabs my arms tightly, feeling the nail penetrating the skin. "You say you won't leave me, big brother! You say you won't abandon me! I don't want to be alone. Don't leave me, don't leave me!"

I feel her hot tears dropping on my face. I feel the shaking in her palms. I feel the same burden she is feeling. As much as I want to protest. As much I want to scream at her. The many times I want to tell her it was her damned fault that she put herself in that position. No one forced you to act a damned ass and get yourself raped. No one told you to rob and steal the possessions that you made mom shook. No one told you to do drugs, do alcohol, having sex. Why am I taking care of you. Why? Why? Why?

And now, I, too shed tears from my stained face. I, too, swallow sadness. I, too, no longer want to be in this predicament. I delicately take her hands from my arms. I took her flushed, tear-stained cheeks to direct her attention to me.

"No matter how much you think I will abandon you, I won't," I say to her. "I promise that you can always lean on me. I promise to protect you at all times." I grip it tighter. "What more do you want me to do, little sis?" I pant loudly, keeping my hands on her face. Tears are steadily falling. "You know I will always protect you, love you, cook for you, do things with you until the end of time. I am one person, sis." I sniffle, the first time I am displaying myself to her. "I am one person, sis. The only person who is doing their best to help and to provide for you. But, but…."

I let go of her face. I turn away as I can longer hold on to what is left of my family. I wipe my tears with my arms.

"Let me in."

I stop. I turn to see my sister still staring at me.

"Let me in, big brother."

"What?"

She leans forward and places her forehead on my forehead. We are nose length with each other.

"Let me in, big brother. Let me come into your world with you. That way, you are not alone," she tells me quietly.

I sniffle. I do my very best to keep the composure. I kiss her on her forehead. I am in the position of getting up and heading to the restroom, but her body weight doesn't allow me to move.

"Let me in, big brother."

She presses forward and kisses me on my lips. She holds her hands and rubs it gently as I still trying to register what is occurring. She breaks the kiss.

"Let me in, big brother. Let me in."

 _I am afraid to be too far gone to use such an unlikely for the events that have already unfolded._

She plants another kiss at my tear-stained cheek.

 _A saint is just a fallen sinner who had stood up from his inequalities. And that is just the thing. I am still lying in the sinking sand; suffocating me and swallowing me whole into the pit of where I belong. Where I will forever lie until the end where there will be no space or time._

She continues kissing me on my neck. As much I want to obstruct, she has the upper hand.

 _Because that subject and I share the same mindset, the same genes, the same everything. Despite I being male and she being female, we are one in the same. What I share, she shares. Her pain is my pain. In a way, I am carrying the burden because she is my burden. I am carrying the burden because it is my duty to ensure that she gets her assignment complete._

She puts her hand on my shirt, pulling it until she has contact with my bare flesh. She kisses my chest gently, being delicate and ensuring that I am satisfied at her pleasure.

 _I know what you are thinking and it sounds confusing, doesn't it? It matters not because she is going to fulfill her end of the deal before this thesis is complete. That is her purpose to fill the portion of her design._

"Let me come into your world with you. That way, you are not alone."

 _Why does my sister choose such a creature, I will never know. I can't go into her mind, but maybe, just maybe she wants to fly._

"I don't want to be alone, sis. I don't want to be alone either."

 _I am neither the author or God in this riveting web, but I think of those things. Maybe, just maybe, I am the task she needs to complete to finish her metamorphosis. Maybe it is my assignment to protect her, to shield her away from the pain and the agony. Her past is her past. I shed the tears, the pain. Where she bruised, I bruised. Where she bled, I bled._


End file.
